


Grace

by kore_rising



Series: Grace [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kore_rising/pseuds/kore_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne tries to go back to her old life, but no one comes back from performing inception unaltered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Grace  
> Rating: NC-17/M for sexual content and expensive clothes being treated badly.  
> Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur  
> Notes/Warnings: For [this](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/15916.html?thread=32175148#t32280876) prompt at[](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/profile)[ **inception_kink**](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/)
> 
> The characters, setting and story of _Inception_ are the property of Christopher Nolan and no cash is being made from this story.

"...so as we can deduce from Mallgraves' summary, Léonce Reynard mounted his challenge to Classicism on the basis..." Professor Miles soothing tones were interrupted by a sudden knock on the lecture room door. He sighed in resignation. "My apologies, it would seem that the Classicists have decided to mount a counter attack." The small group of students laughed quietly, some taking the opportunity to stretch out their cricked necks and writing hands with wry smiles. "Come in!" He called. "Ah Angélique," he smiled at the fair haired young woman who opened the door, "what seems to be the problem?"  
She smiled nervously in response. "I beg your pardon, professor, for my interruption." He waved away her apology with a careless hand. "We have had a delivery for Miss Porter and the courier was most insistent that it had to be given to her in person."  
"How intriguing. Well, I suppose you'd better let the gentleman?" She gave a brief nod in reply. "The gentleman do his duty. If that's alright with you, Ariadne?" He sought the petite woman sitting in the middle of the small group of post graduates with raised eyebrows and a slight smile. Her face had coloured at the first mention of her name, and now she was avoiding the eyes of her peers by looking fixedly straight ahead, hands folded in her lap while she worried her bottom lip. "Ariadne?" He repeated calmly, watching as she answered with a brief nod of her own, her eyes flickering to the side as the tall young man dressed in motorcycle gear clumped down the lecture hall steps. He noticed her eyes went straight to his face, taking in his dark hair and dark eyes; her body tensed, then she was turning towards him, her mouth forming a word, only to stop suddenly, snapping back into her former poise with just the merest flash of disappointment behind her eyes.

"Madamoiselle Porter?" He asked in a thick accent as he drew level with the tiny group.  
"Oui, c'est moi." Ariadne responded, raising her hand briefly, her words clipped and short. "Je suis ici, monsieur."  
"Géniale," he said cheerfully then placed a deep rectangular box, no more than the size of one that might hold a pair of knee length boots or a bouquet of flowers, onto the desk in front of her and proffered a clipboard. "Signez ici, s'il vous plaît," he pointed with his pen, watching calmly as Ariadne scrawled her name, ripping off the delivery note and handing over her copy with a flourish. "Quelqu'un nous aime vraiment." He winked at her then backed away, raising his hand and nodding to the group, "Excusez-moi de vous déranger, professor."  
"Pas de problème." Professor Miles nodded cordially in return as the courier made to leave.

"Well, that was an interesting interlude." He admitted to his students as the door closed. "Ariadne, would you like a short break to see what had to reach you so urgently? I'm sure your colleagues are as curious as you and I must admit that I certainly am." She looked up from running her hands across the flat package as if she was slightly dazed.  
"Thank you professor, but no. It can wait, I'm sure." She gathered the box up in careful, decisive hands and put it flat down next to her chair, but not before he saw the words _**Yves St. Laurent, 6 Place Saint Sulpice**_ stamped over the sender's address.

He watched as she smoothed the page of her notebook back, poised her pen and looked up at him with clear eyes, offering her in return one last querying glance, trying to communicate concern, understanding and sympathy to her. She hadn't been the same since he'd let her go with Dominic, she hadn't. He had let her go, knowing if anyone could handle it it was Ariadne with her robust sense of self and stubborn nature, and truly no one had made the choice but her. Dom had simply offered, he understood that, in just the same way as he'd once offered Dom and Mallorie, and all the others who he knew were now out there, walking the dream world in search of who knew what. Or were they like Ariadne, trying to forget and failing?

Of course, the teacher in him nudged, her mind was as sharp as ever. But she wandered, as if the solid lines of brick and steel could no longer hold her attention, as if the words of her fellows were being heard but now so far from her own experience they could barely touch her. She walked the halls and did her work but he knew ( _how could he not?_ ) that some part of her had been forever altered and that she pined for the dream world; an addict denied her drug of choice; a stranger in a now strange land trying to blend in but somehow irrevocably _other_ , bearing a taint of the otherworldly; the miasma of the dreamer awoken hanging around her like wafts of strange perfume, setting her apart as surely as if she were behind glass.

Once he was settled back into family life and calm enough to share his experiences, Dominic had praised her endlessly. And so had the men who had, after a suitably long interval, visited him: The sardonic Englishman who had arrived at ten o'clock at night clutching a bottle of whisky and wearing a razor sharp smile, arguing the fortunes of Chelsea FC with his compatriot long into the small hours of the morning. The tow headed Asian scientist who had called in for tea and discussed Islamic design with Steven as easily as he reeled off the names of chemical compounds. The quiet Japanese businessman who made a courtesy call complete with a gift; all had mentioned her in passing, her talents, her strengths, her flaws, along with veiled mentions of "the job" (as if Steven hadn't been performing extraction exercises when most of them were in nappies, gumming down rusks.)

All except the youngest of them, the dark haired, lean young man with the faintly military bearing who James and Phillipa had greeted enthusiastically as their _uncle_ ; receiving his gifts with delighted whoops as he smiled beneficently. He hadn't mentioned Ariadne, not once, in fact the absence of her name had made him wonder since the man was quite obviously one of Dom's team. And he had kept wondering, until he had overheard his son in law and his young colleague talking on the last evening of his visit, standing in the fading light as they sipped wine; a conversation that struck him as odd at the time but now, looking at his student, he recalled all to clearly. 

 _"Have you seen her?" Dom asked quietly.  
"No," the younger man's voice was a deep, resonant counterpoint to Dom's.  
"You want to though, don't you?" The silence was thick with singing insects. "You should. You miss her."  
"She's needs to try and be as normal as possible for as long as possible. She needs to finish her degree. "  
"And what do you think she'd say to that?"  
There was a dry laugh. "She'd kick my ass and tell me where to get off, deciding what was best for her."  
"She would." His son in law's voice was wry. "She's never going to be normal again, you know that. None of us are ever quite the same once we've done this, even once. Not you, not me and not her either." There was quiet again, broken only by the chime of a glass being put down and then refilled.  
"It's not safe. Not yet."  
"Safe is a relative term for us," Dom replied slowly. "Safe can mean that you don't want to bring trouble to her door. But it can also mean that you're afraid that that trouble might be you. She's not a child and she's not a fool. You can't protect her forever. Or are you going to wait until you take monastic vows, spend three decades purging her from your system then go back since she's bound to have forgotten you, you'll be dead from the libido down and nothing can happen at all? You're really going to do that?"  
Silence again. Then a single word, exhaled into the night.  
"No."_

Ariadne tilted her chin up, her jaw tightening and her eyes hard as agates: He realised sharply that she felt no pity for herself, or if she did it was locked away beyond anyone's reach but her own. And she certainly didn't want it from her teacher, no matter how well intentioned he was trying to be; no matter how well he might think he knew what she was going through. But to him the signs were irrefutable. She was outgrowing this world as surely and as certainly as he had; as Dominic and Mallorie had. He only hoped she would be strong enough to bear the pain that such growing could bring. That experience would be a gentler teacher for her than it had ever been for them.

So Steven Miles cleared his mind and his throat, smiled at his class and said "Well then. Reynard mounted his challenge to Classicism due to prevailing attitudes..."

~*~

Ariadne firmly locked the door of her carrel in the architecture library behind her, let out a long breath and sat down, considered the package lying on the desk. It was wrapped in heavy brown paper, the address label printed rather than handwritten giving her name care of the school. The sender was listed as the Yves St.Laurent store on the Rive Gauche, no other name given, and aside from the courier's label it was as blank as a fresh page, smelling faintly of some rich perfume on the dry background of paper. It was slightly heavier on one side, but it had no tell tale chemical odour, no quiet click of electronics running inside or ridges that might be wires.

She carefully slit the tape holding the wrapping in place with her exacto knife and folded it back with a sharp rustle, finding within a bright white lidded box bearing the familiar type across it. "No note." She muttered, running her fingers around the lid's edge and slitting two more tapes. She lifted it cautiously, tracing under the lip but finding nothing, feeling no resistance as she pulled except for the sigh of air being pulled into layers of tissue, making them puff out like clouds as she took the lid away and laid it down. On top of the pristine white packaging was a single, antique pink rose so pale it was almost white, unblemished by it's journey and filling the air with a thick, heady scent. She picked it up, turning the full bloom in her fingers. Obviously fresh, which meant that the sender had taken great pains to ensure that she received this within an hour or two. She touched the thick petals with a fingertip, their texture silken and cool against her skin. It would need water, she realised, it's need to live suddenly keen in her mind as she groped in her satchel for her drinks bottle, standing the flower in its strange vase with quiet care.

The white tissue was crisp as new snow as she parted it, folding it over the box edge and breathing in the sudden tang of new cloth and leather that came up to meet her. "What on earth..." She whispered, her eyes widening as she saw first the rich black of the folded fabric inside, brushing over it to find it soft as a caress under her touch, and another box tucked neatly into the side that she noted had been heavier. With infinite care she pulled out some of the tissue to shield the fine things as she laid them out before her, each one drawing another jolt of surprise. First came a tuxedo jacket, it's silk satin covered lapels shining dully in the light and it's narrow lines obviously cut to flatter a female shape. A short, straight skirt that once on she guessed would reveal an unusually long expanse of her legs. Her jaw all but hit the floor as she pulled out the leather bustier with it's zipped front, swooping neckline and fine stitching, an item that even for someone like her would create a cleavage that could stop traffic. A smaller tissue wrapped bundle opened to reveal an exquisite black lace thong so brief it made her eyes widen even further and a pair of lace edged thigh highs. Finally she opened the smaller box, drew out the bag within and discovered a pair of sandals made from inky black leather, the heels sharp as spikes and the soles high, their arch designed to display the foot like an object d'art since they obviously weren't intended for walking in. 

She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. It was easily six or seven thousand dollars worth of clothing in front of her, all of it in the correct sizes. Ariadne ran rapidly through the possibilities: it was a mistake and they had the wrong Ariadne Porter ( _no, she was the only Ariadne she had met in Paris, let alone in the college._ ) It was from her family ( _no, they knew her style and much though they loved her they would never spend this amount on an outfit, let alone one so obviously sensual_.) It was a gift from Saito ( _no, he'd thanked her with a delicately painted piece of pottery and a scroll months before.  Besides, he'd never so much as glanced at her and he was far too outwardly reserved to send something like this, surely?_ ) Dom? ( _No, they'd spoken last week and he was as cheerful and fraternal as ever._ ) Eames? ( _YSL wasn't really his style._ ) A bribe from someone seeking her services? ( _She'd kept her head down; who could know about her?_ ) Arthur? ( _No:_ She crushed that faint wish ruthlessly. She hadn't heard from him since LA six months ago. _He had moved on. So should she._ ) She pulled away the last of the tissue, emptying the box and there, lying in the very bottom, was a heavy white envelope. She plucked it out and turned it over, seeing her name written in neatly printed black letters.

"OK," she breathed "OK, keep calm Ariadne. You can do this." But her hand still shook as she cut it open with her knife, the blade slicing the paper as smoothly as a sigh, letting her take out the contents- a single folded sheet and a key card bearing the name _**La Réserve Paris**_. The note was abrupt, no more than three lines at most:

 _  
**A car will collect you from your apartment at 6pm if you wish to come.  
Wear these clothes. Bring the key card and go to suite ten.  
This is not a trap. You will not be harmed. But you were right to be cautious.**   
_

No name, no initial, the same artfully neutral script that had been used to write her name. Someone who knew she was on her guard, having been schooled carefully by Arthur on the risks she might face having entered the world of dream share and mind crime. _If you wish to come...This is not a trap...you were right to be cautious_...she stared at the words, her brow creasing. Someone who knew her interest would be piqued. Someone who saw her as...what? She ran her eyes over the beautiful clothing in front of her and it struck her sharply; as a woman. Not a brain on too short legs or a boyish architecture student accustomed to the protective colouring of her many layered outfits. Someone sexual. Someone desirable. Someone with skin that needed to been seen ( _and touched_ , the tiny voice whispered again, then it repeated his name in a silvery shiver that ran down her spine.)

She repacked the clothes into the box, folding them neatly, and checked her watch. Eleven thirty; she had six and a half hours. Ariadne reached decisively for her laptop and cell phone. If she was right to be cautious it wouldn't hurt to do a little digging.

~*~

Having spent nearly two hours on trying to discover who had sent her a box of furiously expensive designer wear, she had only found out three things. The polite woman at Yves St.Laurent asked her name, then insisted she could disclose nothing as it was the sender's request. In fact he had been very firm on that point, along with adding that all the items had been selected by him personally and packed in his presence. No, she couldn't give a name, would there be anything else? Were the items to madamoiselle's liking? Ariadne had ended the call sharply, the single word _ **he**_ scored into her writing pad.

The courier had politely but firmly informed her they had been engaged by the store, the payment added to the gentleman's bill for expedited delivery within the hour. Not cheap, he had added candidly, not at all. How had he seemed? The dispatcher hesitated, adding he really wasn't supposed to say anything about it. But if she was worried, he didn't seem like a lunatic. Well spoken, well dressed and, well, nice. But he really couldn't say any more, he was sorry.

It was the receptionist at La Réserve who surprised her most. She had asked politely for the gentleman in suite ten only to be told that he was not, under any circumstances, taking calls. Ariadne had wearily started to thank the man for his time, when he added: "You are Miss Ariadne Porter, yes?"  
"I am. Why do you ask?"  
"He told us that if you were to call we were to give you a message." There was a faint rustle of papers, then his voice again. "Miss Porter?" She made an affirmative noise. "He said to tell you that you know how to check, beyond a doubt, that you are not in a dream." She froze, her hand covering her pocket almost unconsciously to feel the curved shape of the bishop under her touch. "Miss Porter?" The man's voice prompted her. "Miss Porter, are you there?"  
"Yes. I'm sorry. Could you say that again?" Ariadne took the chess piece from her pocket and stood it on her desk, finger poised as the man repeated clearly:

" _ **You know how to check, beyond a doubt, that you are not in dream**_."  
She pushed.  
It fell. And stayed still.

"Thank you." She hung up without waiting for him to reply, staring at the bronze bishop in front of her. A man; a well dressed, well spoken, non crazy seeming, wealthy man. And a dream worker.

She stared at the toppled piece and she repeated to herself quietly, " _So you know beyond a doubt that you are not in someone else's dream_." (The workshop, her furious exit, a die glinting like the ruby eye of an idol between his finger and thumb as his even tone began the lesson, his small smile belying the serious nature of his words.) It couldn't be him, could it? After all these days and nights of watching the world and waiting for something, she barely knew what, to end this half life of marking time in lecture halls and study rooms, of Professor Miles insisting she could graduate with all the credit she had amassed by now and that she was reaching the end of what they could teach her in any case; of the anxious looks of her friends when they went out partying together, faces barely hiding concern as they kept minute yet palpable distance; of her mother's voice pleading with her to come home even as she insisted she wanted to stay in Europe; hours at the private firing range, blasting the seconds off the clock in a clatter of bullets; of classes in unarmed combat, the screaming ache of muscles pushed to breaking point just so she could feel as if...Ariadne exhaled slowly. She had barely dared to hope in all the echoing hours since LAX. Now seemed to be all she could do. Hope and fear. Awe and terror. Dream and reality. 

Four and three quarter hours left. She knew exactly what she needed to do now.

Ariadne packed her belongings away, picked up her parcel and left the carrel. She ran down the stairs, walked through the building and from the college, over the river via the bridge where Mal had stabbed her, into the city, barely seeing it as she passed through. She didn't stop until she reached the spa she and her closest friend had visited for a birthday treat. She strode in, snapped her credit card onto the counter and informed the slightly shocked beauty behind the desk she wanted "Everything done in less than three and a half hours. Hair, skin, nails, face; can you do that?"  
"We might need to have two therapists treating you at once and that will cost..."  
"Fine." She had interrupted, pushing the card into the woman's unresisting hand. "Let's get started."

\---

At five fifty pm precisely Ariadne decided that she was ready. Any further primping or fussing would be simply be detrimental to the hard won effect of careless glamour that she had striven so hard to achieve, mostly so she didn't resemble a hooker in a mini skirt and bra top. She'd been scrubbed, depilated, massaged and polished to within an inch of her life and now she looked...She hesitated in front of her reflection.

The woman in the glass appeared artfully dishevelled with her hair in a loose, trailing knot with the rose carefully tucked behind it; a fantastically minimal face of make up which seemed to take more products than she had ever used in her life; and the clothes, so beautiful to look at and even finer to wear, even the shoes which she had feared would turn her ankles if she much as stepped forwards, even they looked perfect when pared with herself in this new guise. She only wished she felt as soigné as she looked. Inside her stomach was a roiling mess and every muscle from her scalp to her toes felt tight. The reflection's pupils were pinched to pinpricks and she knew that under her layer of paint she was pale as a sheet. Ariadne forced herself to take a deep breath, then another. She refused to let herself go; they, _he'd_ , taught her better than that.

Turning from the mirror she picked up her totem, the keycard, her apartment key and a credit card and tucked them into the tiny purse she had decided to take, cursing the slight shake in her hands with furious heat. Then, with deliberate care, she strapped on the thigh holster and slipped her freshly loaded pistol into place. If she was right to be cautious she was damn well going to be as cautious as she could. The door buzzer rang sharply as she straightened her skirt over the weapon then checked the fall of her hair and beamed determinedly at her reflection. The shake in her hands was gone, she noticed, and her face glowed from under her make up. _Better_ , she noted firmly, _much, much better_.

Zero hour: Time to go.

She picked up her purse, strode across the floor and slammed the door behind her.

~*~

Suite Ten was apparently empty when Ariadne entered. She dropped the keycard in her purse and crept carefully across the bright room, noting the open door to the bedroom (bed empty and tightly made up), the terrace doors flung wide so the white curtains billowed in the spring breeze, framing the Eiffel Tower in a shimmering cloud of fabric, as well the lack of any signs of habitation.

Save one. Lying on the desk that had been carefully positioned so that the user could gaze out onto the park beyond was an open file folder, papers fanned carefully out and inviting her closer inspection.  As she moved closer she could see that the topmost articles were photographs, shot through a long lens and rendered in muted colour. Ariadne dropped her purse on the surface and carefully moved them apart with her fingers. A woman, tall, curvaceous and blonde, wrapped in a long black coat striding down a street with a purposeful expression. Again, this time standing at  an open window, sipping a glass of wine. Kissing another woman, older, perhaps her mother, on the cheek. And finally, standing next to a tall, dark man in an evening suit.  
Ariadne's heart felt hard in her throat; Arthur. Standing next to the woman looking every inch the polished professional as she leant into him with a confidential smile. Her eyes said it all, he was all she wanted to look at, all she wanted to be near and all that was in the world for her at that moment. Ariadne swallowed, putting her fingertips on the last image. _What was this? Someone trying to tell her they knew her weakness? Trying to anger her so that she would turn on him or them and give up all that they had done?_  

She hadn't heard the door open, so when he spoke she span around whip sharp, drawing her pistol and levelling it in the move she practised so often it felt automatic. "Her name was Amanda." Arthur was standing in the middle of the room, his suit as crisp as if he'd pressed it mere seconds ago, blacker than shadows, with white shirt and red tie snapping him sharply into focus against the neural décor. _He must have been waiting in the kitchen or the bathroom or something_ , she realised with icy clarity. Waiting for her footsteps, for her to see.He glanced at the gun Ariadne was pointing at him and she couldn't help but notice the approving twist to his lips at her steady hands and level stare. _Was_ , she noted, _not is_.

He carefully unbuttoned his jacket with one hand, reached back and produced his gun then with calm efficiency ejected the clip and put both objects onto the coffee table, all the while keeping his eyes on hers as she kept him trained in her sights. "Amanda Pierson, heiress to one of the largest electronics firms on the eastern seaboard." He carried on, moving calmly towards her on soft feet. "She was our last mark. Part of the job required that I get close to her, discover the weaknesses in her personal security so that we could exploit them." Ariadne felt her jaw clench as he stopped with his chest only a few centimetres from the end of her gun barrel. "She wanted me. I think she might even have thought I wanted her too." His face was serious, eyes dark and hard in his strongly boned face. "Until she tried to seduce me." He finished softly, looking at her as she inhaled. "I am a penitent man, Ariadne. I had devoted myself to you, in silence and from a distance, but I have fallen from the true faith. I told myself you were better off without me. And I let her kiss me. I hadn't kissed anyone since I kissed you, and I didn't want to. But I weakened, and I let her." Ariadne felt her hand waver, the pistol hard in her sweat warm palm. "But I wasn't the only one, was I?" He added and her stomach lurched. Of course he knew. Of course he'd been keeping tabs on her and she suddenly felt furious with him for keeping his distance.

"You," she pushed the gun forwards angrily, "were not here. I was alone. I was trying to be who I used to be and I _couldn't_." His face betrayed a sudden sympathy as she carried on. "We went on three dates. I kissed him _once_." Her voice shook. "Where were you, Arthur? You didn't call me, you didn't email me, you barely said goodbye in LA. I had to make sense of it all by myself and you knew that I..." She cursed herself, she wouldn't cry in front of him. "I did." He admitted, reaching up slowly towards the pistol and closing his hand firmly around it.  "I'm sorry. I made a mistake in the name of keeping you safe." He gripped down, his finger tips on her clenched hand. His palm felt dry and steady over hers.  "I promised you wouldn't be harmed." She could only fix on his eyes, so calm and almost sad as he said gently, "Give me your gun. You don't need it."

For a long second they stood perfectly still, him with a bullet an inch from his heart and her with her finger on the trigger, watching each other as outside birds sang, the curtains flapped and traffic hummed on the streets below. "Ariadne," he repeated slowly, "please, give me your gun." She saw it then, in his calm breaths as he faced her down with wide pupils and a ghost of a smile. He had stayed away for fear of harming her, but not with the outside forces he might bring along. He had stayed away for fear that the harm would come from himself, and in doing so he feared he had unwittingly caused exactly what he had tried to prevent. She loosened her grip as he spoke, lifting the weapon into his own grasp and removing the clip. "Thank you." He dropped the bullets onto the desk and examined the pistol, letting out a soft, admiring breath. "Walther PPK-L, point thirty two ACP." He looked back at her as he held it up. "You learned to shoot." It was a statement, not a question.  
"Yes," she fixed him with a firm gaze, "I'm also learning hand to hand." One eyebrow lifted slightly. "You're not surprised," she added feeling faintly irritated at his reaction.  
"No," he carefully put the empty pistol next to the magazine, "you're a natural. You want to work in dreams and you understand the price that might carry." He ran his gaze up her slowly. "You didn't want to be unprepared when the opportunity came." She felt her skin heat under his lingering gaze.

"Why did you do all this?" She asked abruptly, making him stop and refocus on her face. "Why send me the clothes, and the rose and the note? Why leave that message? Why couldn't you just come and see me?" He hesitated, one hand working in and out of a fist by his side.  "I didn't want you to refuse me." He managed, taking in her bemused look. "I didn't know, I wasn't sure that you would agree to talk to me after all this time. I was afraid that you might say no if I simply showed up at your door." She started to shake her head; the Arthur she knew had been a confident, slick and cool operator, least likely of them all to stumble when thrown a curve ball. "I came here looking for your forgiveness," he carried on, one hand reaching up towards her face then hesitating over her skin so she felt the heat shadow of his palm on her cheek. "I wanted to be honest with you and show you how much I value you. I'm looking for your absolution, Ariadne. Will you grant it?" His low voice sent a tremor up her body. He was offering himself to her; laying his raw, beating heart in the palm of her hand as trustingly as she'd once let him take her mind into his dreams. He wasn't safe, he wasn't a hero or a perfect man. But he was standing before her and holding out everything he had, hoping she'd take it.

Ariadne swallowed once, trying to find her voice. "Yes. Yes, Arthur, I will."  Her hands stretched out and took hold of his jacket, grasping the lapels and smoothing them under her fingers. Never had she been so grateful for high heels in all her life. His face was still as she drew him closer. His hand closed on her, thumb brushing her lips as he held her jaw and relief seeming to wash through him. "It's you," she managed to smile somehow as he came closer, "it's really you." She could barely help the lightness that knowing he had come back had given her. "It is." One hand rested on the curve of her spine, bringing her body into his. "It's really me. And it's really you." He let her shape relax into his, hard lines meeting softer ones as he bent his head, tilting her face into his and kissing her as if she was quenching some thirst that had gone too long unsatisfied. She met him touch for touch as her hands came up to cradle his face, holding him against her as if he might blink out of sight if she let go. His mouth was warm and possessive as it moved over hers, his tongue teasing her lips apart then suddenly breaking into her mouth as he deepened their embrace. She could hear the fury of their breathing as his hands grabbed at her ass and the back of her head, dragging her against him as she pulled him into her. She fisted his hair in her grip as he let go of her mouth and ran messy, open lipped kisses over her neck, pushing her head back and her body forwards with a desperate noise in his chest. When he nipped the spot beneath her earlobes she answered him, letting herself sink onto the desk and hooking one leg around his thighs so he was caught between her thighs. He pushed her jacket away, letting it fall over the photos and adding fresh kisses over her bare shoulders as she unknotted his tie in a whisk of silk, pulling each button on his vest free until she could smooth her hands over his impeccable white button down, fingers tracing each line underneath it with relish, feeling his stomach panting under her touch. "Oh god, Ariadne." He mumbled as he came back to her mouth, letting her start on his shirt, untucking and unfastening with lust quickened fingers.

"Bed," she insisted between kisses as she peeled his shirt open, dragging his collar wide so she could nip and lick at the base of his neck and letting her nails catch at his nipples. He let out a sharp _oh_ as she teased them. "I'm so sensitive there," he breathed as his head lolled back, "I love having them sucked too." He broke off with another exclamation as Ariadne's mouth closed over one of the hard nubs in response, her tongue smoothing it as her lips pulled at the delicate flesh. "Oh god," he repeated as she tasted him, forcing the layers of clothing off his torso with determined hands until they hit the floor in a heavy sigh, leaving her free to massage his ass as he groaned her name into the air. "Not too much," he pleaded as she switched sides with a happy purr, "you could make me come like this and I want to be inside you...oh, Ariadne _please_." He gasped as she let one hand stray over his hips, trailing over his pants until she could feel the length of him pressing into her palm with an insistent pulse.

She took her mouth from his chest and looked up to see him flushed, dark eyed with arousal and looking at her as if he wanted to eat her whole. Which she wouldn't mind, she decided, hooking her leg around him tighter, not at all. "Bed," he growled the word this time, fastening his hands around her waist  and lifting her up so she was forced to twine her legs around his back. Her mouth descended on his as he carried her across the suite and into the bedroom, one arm slung under her behind as the other hand unfastened her skirt. "Mmm," she murmured as he slipped down the zip and traced the line of her thong, making her skin goosebump with every brush of his finger, "no one has ever brought me such sexy panties before, did you know that?" She let her forehead rest on his as she grinned down at him. "No one has ever given me such an expensive, sexy outfit before, then insisted I wear it." His answering grin was simultaneously dirty and charming in one fell swoop.

"It was worth every cent just to see you in it." He put her down, letting her skirt fall as she straightened up "and to to take it off you again." He added as she stepped back, out of her skirt, pulling him by the belt towards the bed as she went, letting herself fall onto it and stretch out with an appreciative wriggle once she reached the edge. The sheets felt cool and crisp on her skin, a blissful balm to her overheated body. "Well, " she smiled as he stood and watched her, "are you coming or not?" His hands unnotched his belt slowly, the grin not faltering for a moment.  
"Yes," he unzipped his pants while she regarded him with heavy lidded eyes, "and so are you."  
"Is that a promise?" She drawled, trying to keep the laughter out of her words as she slipped her hands over the bustier and let them dawdle downwards, grazing over the tiny triangle of lace and noticing she was damp enough to coat her fingertips.  
"No," he said darkly, dragging the rest of his clothes away so he was naked under her appreciative gaze, "that's a fact." 

Any smart reply she might have had melted as he knelt by her feet, and with careful fingers unbuckled her shoes, dropping them on the floor. He unfastened her holster with a grin, kissing the patch of skin under it before he hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties and pulled them down with aching slowness, scattering more kisses down her legs as he went. Both hands slid back up, opening her thighs until she was splayed open before him, her own arousal now more than evident.

His first lick made her hips rise, a flat tongued rasp from bottom to top, slicking her already wet flesh with more moisture. The next made her groan and twist against the sheets, arms flung wide as he lapped at her, sketching strokes and dashes over her clit then tracing the lips of her sex so slowly she was moaning from deep in her throat, clutching at his head as his hands cupped her ass, bringing her up to his mouth so his eager tongue could slip inside her. This time she was the one repeating "Oh, Arthur." Desperation making her louder than she could ever recall being. He answered her with humming assents that set fresh waves of sensation off in her, tilting her head back as she desperately tried to focus on him pleasuring her with his mouth. He was devouring her, making the wet stickiness between her thighs and the fiery sensations in her flesh increase with every passing caress. "Oh god," she could hear herself pleading now, writhing against his face as her toes started to curl and the warm drag of her orgasm began to mount in her legs. Not like this, not the first time; she felt herself pulse around his tongue as he worked deeper, his gaze on her as she watched him; she couldn't, she needed...

"I need you." She pulled at his hair, demanding.  "Arthur, inside me. God, I want your cock inside me." She panted and felt him groan as he wrenched his mouth off her and ran his hands up her torso, lingering over her breasts where they were still covered by the bustier, then down her arms as she rolled her head against the rumpled sheets.  
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that." He breathed into her ear as he leant over her, guiding himself inside with slow precision. "How long I have waited for this." He bottomed out, listening as she tightened around him with a hiss and nipping at her jaw in reply. "For you." He stayed still as she tightened again, feeling him hard and thick inside her as he pressed down over her, hot and sweat slick where ever he was touching her. "Or how long I've waited for you," she pulled his head down, sealing his mouth with hers only releasing him when he began to move inside her, hips rolling over hers.  
"You waited for me." He whispered in a husky rasp. "Oh god, Ariadne, you waited for me." He sounded almost over awed as he pressed up over her, letting her take his face in her hands as she arched up to meet him, her hair finally collapsing and scattering the petals of the rose underneath their overheated bodies, filling the air with it's heady aroma.

"So incredible." He ground out, thrusting so hard she fell back onto the bed, both hands grabbing his ass to pull him deeper. "This is so fucking incredible." His eyes met hers as he spoke. "You feel so good around me. You look so fucking beautiful when I'm inside you." Ariadne felt a shock of pleasure as he began to work harder, her body starting to tighten under the insistent touch of his skin over hers, the fullness of his cock stroking inside her as she jacked up against him. Her breasts were being squeezed by the delicious pressure of the leather, making them send sparks into her belly and thighs as she twisted against the bed. Her clit was throbbing, a hard nudge with every press of Arthur's pelvis into her own that was making her pulse around him, the unmistakable heat building inside her as she watched and felt him. His eyes didn't leave hers, his face a picture of desire being fulfilled as he made love with her, raw syllables of need pouring from his lips as she answered him over and over. 

"Come," she was moaning, "Oh god, Arthur, come."  
"Need you to..." He insisted furiously, his motion getting harder. "You, Ariadne, you." Impulsively she reached up, offering two fingers to him, watching with a low growl as he sucked them into his mouth, wetting them for her before she pulled them free with a slick pop. Her hand worked between their bodies, her slick fingers hitting her clit and circling it as he groaned in approval, slamming home as she touched herself, three rapid flicks and suddenly she was clenched around him, feeling him from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair.  Air forcing out of her lungs in a silent shriek; her body rising up to ride out pulse after pulse of hot, sparkling sensations as he carried on, the feeling of his cock inside her as he rode them with her making her come again, gasping his name until his body tipped over, spasming inside her as his his mouth met hers in a devouring, lip twisting kiss.

~*~

The dawn light was pale gold as it brushed over her eyelids, waking her from the sated slumber she'd fallen into after the fourth (maybe the fifth time, she'd hardly been keeping count) time they'd made love. As she stretched against the rucked bedclothes Ariadne felt the pleasant ache of muscles unused to such frantic activity, the soft heaviness between her legs and the echoes of bruises forming where he'd gripped and held her. 

Next to her Arthur mumbled in his sleep, one hand curled under his cheek and the other resting reassuringly on her hip. "I dreamt of you." He had whispered to her last night. "I would fall asleep and dream you. I haven't dreamt properly in such a long time." Her answering croon of sympathy had made him shower her with kisses all over again. Now he lay in the relaxed lines of rest, not stirring as she moved. She must have worn him out, she decided with a happy surge. Imagine that. She let one hand stroke his face gently, then lent down and put a soft kiss on his sleeping lips. He made an indistinct noise and she felt his lashes flutter against her fingertips. "I didn't mean to wake you." She said softly, leaning back a little.  
"S'OK." He breathed, the hand on her side meandering up her spine as he blinked, still drowsy. "Get up soon anyway. Kiss?" She indulged him, relishing every touch then lying next to him as he drifted back into sleep, his hands on her warm and reassuring. 

It was strange to think that yesterday she'd been so utterly confused by her existence; marking time rather than living. But in the space of one night it was as if her world had been shaken, thrown up into the air and landed in a clear pattern. For all the uncertainty she'd felt in the last months, all the isolation and anger, it was as if it had fallen from her when he said "It's really you." The architect, the extractor in waiting, the woman all blended into one. He had granted her a crystal sharp vision of her future and she knew right now, lying with him in their sleep warm bed, what had to be done.

He didn't stir when she slipped from his grasp and pattered around the room dressing, tying up her hair, draping her jacket over her shoulders and reclaiming her pistol. He moved briefly when she leant over him for one last kiss, rolling onto his back and lazily working his fingers into her hair. "Going?" He asked. Not _stay_ ; not _come back to bed_ , she noticed. He must know, she decided fondly, damn perceptive bastard.  
"Uh huh." His mouth stole the end of the sound, marking it's territory on her again.  
"À bientôt." He promised gently, waiting for her to reply in kind before he let go. 

~*~

Ariadne was packing her belongings into a box when she heard the firm knock on the door of her carell, and she looked up in pleased surprise to see Steven ( _not Professor Miles_ , he insisted when she told him her news earlier that day, _I am your friend now, not your teacher_ ) opening the door. "Ariadne," his blue eyes twinkled with some secret she couldn't divine, "how's moving going?"  
"Very well," she replied cheerfully, "I think I should be done in an hour or so."  
"And what then? Any work lined up?" He asked.  
"Well, I was thinking of maybe visiting home, taking a vacation then finding a job. Since I know the field I want to work in..."  
"Excellent, excellent," he interrupted; "Well, I hope you don't think this is too forward of me, especially since you're taking a well deserved holiday, but there's someone here whose heard about you and would like to offer you a job. Mr. Moss?" he called.

She felt her jaw slacken in mild surprise as a shocked "What?" formed on her lips as the door widened and there, in his impeccable suit, polished shoes and overcoat, was Arthur, regarding her with a even eyes and holding two paper coffee cups. "Mr. Moss?" She asked with a tiny smile, watching him give a small, wry shrug in reply.  
"Well," Steven looked from one to the other as they looked at each silently, "I have essays to read. I'm sure Mr. Moss can explain everything to you without my help."  He paused with his hand on the door handle. "Good luck, Ariadne. Don't get lost, my girl." He moved to leave, then paused again, addressing Arthur this time. "And Mr. Moss, take my advice and kiss her before you do anything else." 

Arthur put the cups carefully down on her desk and turned to her with a nervous smile. "I..." she started to say, but his mouth was on hers before she could finish, hands fisting into her sweater and arms closing around her. When he let her lips go his smile was huge. "I said I'd see you later, didn't I? She laughed, the lightness of the previous night filling her from her head to her toes.  
"You did. So, is there a job for me?"  
"There is." He stroked her back. "Buenos Aries, in two weeks. Corporate extraction. Interested?" His eyebrows lifted in an amused question.  
"Well," she looped both arms around his waist, "I was going to see my family."  
"You can do that."  
"And take a break."  
"You'd be bored mindless." He promised, putting a kiss on her forehead. "Come with me instead."

 _Come with me_ : It shot from her scalp to her feet in a shiver. His eyes were dark, fond and soft as they looked at her face. "Come with you?" She echoed.  
"With me. We'll go to the US, we'll see your parents then we'll go to Argentina." He said firmly. "I made you wait for too long, and I was wrong to. I won't make the same mistake again." She breathed out, the pattern resolving before her again, shifting as easily as the lines of a dream. "Come with me." He repeated softly, the faintest edge of pleading colouring his tone.

Ariadne looked at him, saw all he was offering and made her decision. She was ready. It was time.  
"Yes."

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N's  
>  _Architectural Theory: Anthology from Vitruvius to 1870, vol 1_ is by H.F Mallgrave. The particular article being referred to is in Part V, section A: _Challenges to Classicism in France 1802-34._ Léonce Reynard was a real French architect who built some very famous lighthouses, among other things.
> 
> The Yves St.Laurent store in Paris is actually at 6 Place Saint Sulpice on the Rive Gauche (there is another, but this was the original atelier.) I'm not sure if YSL make underwear, even though I checked, so you may have to suspend your disbelief on that score.
> 
> Sir Michael Caine is a real life Chelsea supporter, and since almost every adult male over the age of ten in the UK will tell you which team they support, it seemed fitting that he and Eames would talk soccer (or footie, as we like to call it in our festive nation.)  
>    
>  _La Réserve Paris_ is a fiercely exclusive set of serviced apartments on the Place Trocadéro with some of the best views of the Eiffel Tower. And suite ten does have (apparently) a private balcony where visitors can enjoy them. There are some photos of the hotel [ here](http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/luxury-hotels/la-reserve-paris/photos) if you're curious.
> 
> Araidne's gun (the [Walther PPK-L](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walther_PP#PPK-L)) was chosen deliberately for it's small weight, size and thus ability to be strapped to her thigh. It has nothing to do with _James Bond_ , I promise.


End file.
